Fleda, My Child
by Ophelion
Summary: We know that Fleda Claes Johansson was found in a hospital, in a paralysed state, but how did she get there? This is one possible explanation of Claes' origins... ONESHOT


This is only in reference to _Gunslinger Girl_ the anime. If this is inconsistent with the plot of the manga, I'm sorry but I haven't read it.

For anyone who's unsure, PVS stands for Persistent Vegetative State.

**Disclaimer: **_Gunslinger Girl_ is owned by Aida Yu. I only own the character of the narrator and the plot. Any similar events, personas and happenings that are similar to those mentions are purely due to coincidence.

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**Fleda, My Child**

Fleda, my child…

It's all my fault that you're here right now, your blank eyes staring into nothing, those violet eyes that used to be so full of spirit, full of life, despite the usual obstacles of lenses.

Now they're blank, lifeless, only inhibited by the darkness of death.

You _are _dead, in a way. The doctor has told me about your current PVS state, and it's likely to last.

I've killed you, my child. Your own mother has killed you.

And your father... Fleda, my child, you were killed by your own parents, by your father's wrath, and your mother's insanity.

Please understand, my child, I hadn't meant to kill you… I didn't know what came over me; I know they all say that. You'll tell me just that, with your deep yet soft voice, I can hear it: _They all say that. All the characters who've done something accidentally always say that_. Then you'd quote from one of the many books that your father and I have given to you over the years.

Why, Fleda, my child, you were only turning twelve, and you've displayed such intellect. You were the pride and joy of your father and I. We could see you as a great person in the future, a scientist, a famous writer, a teacher, an inspiration of the future generations.

The brightness of that future was diminished, the strongly-burning flame of your young life was snuffed out, when I realised you've stopped breathing. By my own hands, I've killed my only and beloved child.

Fleda, my child, with the life that you have left, the remaining part of you that's still functioning, please know that I am sorry for what I have done. Please know that I hadn't meant to do what I'd done. I didn't know of my condition. If only I'd known, I would've received treatment, or at least stay away from you, protect you from myself… but I didn't know, I didn't know until they let me go to an asylum instead of a prison for the attempted manslaughter of my own daughter. Your father was also at fault, of course, but he was lucky enough to have himself drunken and killed, making someone else feel the guilt while he escaped with death.

Guilt, that's what's been eating me up all this time. Guilt for the inability to support your unemployed father; guilt for allowing his own wrath to affect me; guilt for allowing him to run off after the row and get himself killed; guilt for turning my fury onto my own child; guilt for falling victim to a mental illness.

Guilt for ruining my own child's life forever.

Fleda, my child, I hadn't meant to put you in this state. I've realised what I've done after my rage exploded upon you in the form of violence. I've realise when you looked at me for the last time, your haemorrhaging eyes locked onto mine, filled with pain, sorrow, and confusion.

At that moment I regained a part of myself, and I released you, but you've already stopped struggling against my grip. The pressure in your throat that reached maximum point just a split second ago had relaxed completely. Silence prevailed after all those screaming, pleading and moaning.

That was when I returned to myself, when I saw the blood on my hands, the blood on you, and heard the erratic ticking of the broken clock, echoing the thumping of one broken heart.

I tried to breathe the life back into you in vain. I could taste and smell the still-warm blood in your mouth; my tears dripped onto your face, glided over the drying blood, and dripped onto the carpet, staining the clean colour of cream with expanding circles of pale red.

I cried for help, and they came; as they finally forced movements back into your unwilling body, they shot me glares of interrogation, accusation, and condemnation… but my mind was blank. All I could sense was the warmth of your body against mine, over all those years, and the warmth of your blood on my hands, over the past hour or so…

Fleda, my child, I had not meant for this to happen. I am your mother, Claes Johansson, who loves you, and would give her life for you, and trade everything she has for the return of her child.

But I am not enough. I no longer even own you as my child. This is the last time I will ever see you, because there are people that are enough to save you; people that are able to return your life to this body of yours. People that can make your deep violet eyes shine again, people that can make you smile again, people that can make you into that girl I was so proud of once again.

That's why I've signed you over. That's why I've given you up. That's why I've disconnected myself to you. You are no longer mine.

Fleda, my child, forget about me. Forget about Claes Johansson, the unworthy woman who called herself your mother; the human being who thought herself worthy as a part of your identity.

Fleda, my child, I don't ask for you to forgive me; I don't ever deserve that. I only ask for you to forget me. Forget Johansson; it's no longer your family. Forget Claes; she's no longer your mother, no longer a part of you.

I want to touch you once again, feel the smoothness of your fine hair between my fingers… but I'll only taint your flawlessness, your innocence, with my corruption.

So I will only say this to you, Fleda...

Goodbye.


End file.
